“The time grows late; I’ll cast my vote.”
He takes a ballot and enters a stall. When he comes back, Wick Smith
gets up, takes a ballot and announces—
“I’m going to kill that vote.”
When he comes back, Ricky Henderson shuffles his feet, picks up a ballot
and says, “Wick, your vote is in the sere and yaller leaf.”
And he votes.
Jay Bird don’t say anything. He just looks at Ricky and votes. No need
for him to say a word. The vote now is fifty-fifty.
Things drag along for a while, and Chuck Warner rides in from Paradise.
“Any trouble down there?” asks Mike Pelly anxious-like.
“Nope.” Chuck shakes his head and sets down.
Then cometh Pete Pelliser from Curlew. His bronc is lathered plentiful,
and the contingent from Curlew crowds around him.
“How’s she coming?” asks Hassayampa.
“Only six votes cast when I left,” says Pete. “Ain’t you fellers going
to vote?”
“Not here,” says Sam Holt. “This ain’t their precinct.”
Then that bunch of belligerents stands up and sees things in the right
light. They’ve mistrusted each other to the extent that they forgets
their duties as citizens—and it’s too late to get back.
“How many votes cast in Paradise, Chuck?” yelps Mike.
“Not over twenty, and they’re about fifty-fifty, Mike.”
“My ——!” groans Mike. “And we was in the majority by two.”
Just then old Sam Holt happens to look up and sees me and Dirty. He lets
out a yelp that could be heard in Helena, and the whole bunch looks up
at us.
“There’s the winning votes!” whoops old Sam. “They turns the tide!”
“Come down,” orders Mike Pelly. “Come down and save the country.”
“For us!” whoops Hassayampa. “Come down, friends.”
“We ain’t going to vote,” says Dirty. “We’re pariahs. You boobs has all
broke your picks with Dirty Shirt Jones, Ike Harper and so forth. We
don’t owe allegiance to nothing nor nobody. _Sabe?_”
Me and Dirty enjoys the spectacle below us. Neither side dares to shoot
us; so we leans as far out as we can and chuckles to ourselves.
I never did find out who threw that rope, but I think it was Chuck.
Anyway, it was somebody who was handy with a rope, ’cause they got us
the first swipe. Then me and Dirty gets yanked off that hay, and a
second later that table ceases to be a table and the ballot-box wouldn’t
hold rocks. Me and Dirty got walked upon in the events which followed.
They say that music hath charms to soothe the savage beasts, but every
time I puckers my mouth to whistle somebody kicked me in the face. After
a while the battle passes outside, and we has a chance to get rid of
that rope.
Sam Holt’s feet are sticking out from under the table, and I sees Wick
rise up with a horse-collar around his neck and the rest of the harness
drapin’ his figure. Me and Dirty drags the table off old Sam, and he
lays there, kicking his feet on the floor like he was internally
disconnected.
“Wick,” says I, “I want them burros back.” I shoved that fifty into his
unresisting hand. “Did you pay that speaker fifty dollars?”
“Uh-huh,” he nods. “He—he didn’t earn it though, and we chased him plumb
over to Powder River to get it back, but he got away.”
“What—do—you—want?” gasps old Sam, setting up.
“Want to vote,” says I. “Can I?”
“Use—your—own—judgment,” says Sam.
I sat down and marked a ballot. When I got through, Dirty marked one.
Then we got up, walked to the back of the stable and herded our four
burros out back, where our plunder was piled.
“Now—is—the—time—for—all—wise—men—to—look—out—for—themselves,” says
Dirty, pronouncing each word between yanks on a cinch.
We prods them burros out between the stable and the barber-shop and sees
a big crowd in the street; so we herds ’em right back and goes around
the other way.
“We don’t care what the excitement is about, Ike,” says Dirty. “Me and
you have had about enough—I know I have.”
“I’d like to have my old gun,” says I. “I lost it when the shack blew
up. Maybe we can find it, Dirty.”
We went up there and hunted around in the dark for an hour—we can’t find
it; so we points them burros down the road and runs into Magpie. He
stops and stares at us.
“Where’s your bronc?” I asks.
“Somebody turned it loose!” he yelps.
“Did Scenery beat you?” asks Dirty.
“How do I know? I’m one vote behind, and Piperock to hear from. Local
option is three behind and Piperock to hear from.”
“Cinch,” grins Dirty. “You get four votes in Piperock, Magpie.”
“Gents, I thank you. I—I reckon we misjudged you two, and I apologize.
Come back to your old home town and enjoy the fullness thereof.”
“Well,” says Dirty, “we might take one shot for old times’ sake.”
We left the burros there and walked back with him. There’s a crowd in
Buck’s place, and we horns right in. Magpie pushes his way to the bar
and faces the crowd.
“Gents,” says he, “let’s celebrate our sweeping victory. We win.”
“You do?” squeaks Scenery Sims. “You do not! I got an even break here,
which places me by one vote, and local option went solid, which puts
this county dry by one vote.”